On why T.S. Eliot is full of hooey

April is most certainly NOT the cruelest month. No, that honor goes to July or August. April is full of optimism justified. The prospect of marvelous success unrolls before you like a velvet carpet of green. The seeds spring up (yes, perhaps violently, but nothing compared to the carnage of later months) under their own power feeding off the stored nutrients in the cotyledon. As long as you put down Sluggo or beer traps, they’re too small to attract the notice of most pests. Rodents don’t care about them until they’re much larger. Aphids wait until plants have got a good vascular system to attack.

It’s too soon to find out that you planted the wrong variety for your climate, or that you chose vegetables impossible to grow in your location. You won’t realize you’ve got root maggots for at least a few more weeks if not longer. It’s too soon to realize that months of excessively heavy fog beyond even what’s normal for your area has caused the content of 90% of your beds to give up the ghost while handing the keys to the fungal kingdom on their way out. In April the spring storms sweep the sky clear and the cobalt blue expanse overhead whispers promises and love songs.

If only it stayed April for a little while longer. The treachery of summer lies just around the corner.

I came back from a weekend away to find the garden in order. I know that wouldn’t happen in July. In July I would have come home to a catastrophic die-off due to an onslaught of something from the insect world, or rodents would have spent the 48 hours recreating Toronto’s underground PATH in my yard. But it’s April, so all is dandy. I even had some sunflower sprouts to crow about. I keep seeing ladybugs and ladybug larvae, and can’t decide if that’s wonderful because they’re good to have in the garden, or an ominous sign because they love to eat aphids and their presence indicates a food source. But it’s only April so I’m an optimist... for now.